Asset Management
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: Michael and Fiona's time in Ireland from just before he receives his assignment to his sneaking off in the middle of the night and its aftermath on him. On temporary hiatus. Will begin updating again in January 2015.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Changed Content Alert: This chapter has been reworked. Thanks to re-watching ****Sins of Omission****, I realized I got the timeline wrong, which pissed me off because I like my version better, but no matter. I am nothing if not a stickler for canon, so minor changes ensue to go with a new chapter =) Part of this was inspired by Matt Nix's comment on a discussion panel that Larry gave Michael a "come to the dark side" speech**

_Covert intelligence involves lot of waiting around. Know what it's like being a spy? It's like sitting in your dentist's reception area 24 hours day. You read magazines, you sip coffee and every so often, someone tries to kill you._

He'd sipped his coffee, read his magazines and, as of yet, no one had come to introduce him to the next set of people who wanted to kill him. The room in which he was currently cooling his heels was as non-descript as any generic government office. There were tables and semi-comfortable chairs scattered around what looked like an over-sized break room with the obligatory fake plants and security cameras. He'd gotten bored looking for them about an hour into his stay.

The elaborate tea service sitting next to a sadly underused coffee maker gave the room a mild British flavor instead of American plain vanilla. He'd coaxed a half-way decent pot of joe out of it about three hours ago. He'd actually been thinking about Darth Vader of all things when the door opened.

"Mr. Raines," he acknowledged, surprised to see his old recruiter come through the door. Raines had changed little other than showing more signs of stress than the last time he had seen him. His dark blue suit was impeccable, but his eyes were pinched and wrinkled.

"Westen," his superior acknowledged. "Can't remember the last time I saw you when you weren't pretending to be someone else."

"That's why you recruited me? My acting skills?" Michael smiled and looked down at his plain black T-shirt and sweats. "I feel under dressed."

"It's not the same dress code in PT," Raines allowed, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table from where his former recruit sat. "I recruited you because you were an unstoppable son of bitch. Had to get you out of the Rangers before your talents went to waste." He smiled back and then it quickly faded. "Heard you'd gotten alittle too unstoppable."

_When you're a spy, you're entrusted with a lot of secrets. Over time, you learn when to talk, when to listen and when to pray that some things have stayed a secret._

Michael ran his hand through his jet black hair absently. Or not, if it diverted Raines' train of thought.

"Still hurts?"

"Still itches where they shaved my head," he complained, rubbing the scar underneath his newly grown hair.

"They tend to do that when they're sewing your head back together," Raines observed dryly.

It had been a _long_ debriefing. Actually, months worth of recuperating and then a long debrief. He had been concerned more than once that someone was thinking of putting a burn notice out on him. He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he found himself on the outside looking in. But in the end his talents, and his reputation within the FSB and the Russian mob, had proven too useful to the agency.

But he wasn't going to be working with Larry Sizemore anymore. On the one hand, they had what the agency called "phenomenal success" in achieving whatever objectives they were given over the three plus years they had worked together throughout the "Third Balkan War." Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, Krajina, wars of independence to some, rebellion to others.

Larry seemed relatively sane compared to the insanity and atrocities Michael saw committed on a daily basis during the breakup of Yugoslavia. At least he could follow his covert partner's reasoning most of the time and Larry 's philosophy and methods perfectly suited the conditions on the ground. The pair had actually gotten a commendation, albeit secretly, for helping the Chechen rebels stave off the federalist Russian attack. It always inspired Michael's best work when it came to helping the little guy kick some bully's ass.

On the other hand, things had gone downhill between him and his former mentor since that ... thing in Chechnya and to say that their last mission together had ended very badly would have been more than a mild understatement. The brass had decided that Mr. Westen needed a vacation in the form of a nice, long deep cover assignment where Farsi and Russian were not the dominant languages.

As soon as he got out of the hospital wing, that is.

"Yeah, I was beginning to feel like Darth Vader with all that breathing equipment I was hooked up to."

Raines eyebrows bunched together. He was clearly wondering if his favorite spy was fit for duty after all. Michael took the magazine he had been reading and spun it around on the table between them so his boss could read the article.

"Look at the money he spent re-making those movies. Why, I remember when I couldn't get purchasing to spring for a bug that cost-"

"Please," the older man begged. "Tell me we're not going to have that discussion again."

"Well, unless you're here to tell me why I'm here, we don't have much else to talk about."

Raines barked a short laugh. "You're good, kid. We've had a request for a joint operation with MI6. They need a fresh face on this one and it won't take much work to sell the fact that you're an explosives expert that sometimes gets a little too close to his work."

Michael made a sour face and rubbed his scalp again. Damn, that itched and hurt.

"Here's the situation report." He reached into his jacket and laid the papers onto the table between them.

_"9 February 1996 - Dockland bombing in the Canary Wharf area of London - two people killed, £85 million in damage to the city's financial centre. Sinn Féin blames ceasefire failure on UK's refusal to begin all-party negotiations until IRA decommissions weapons."_

_June 15 1996 - Manchester Bombing - largest bomb attack in Britain since World War II. £411 million in damage. 200 people were injured in the attack, many of them outside the established cordon. Attack avoided any fatalities due to a telephone warning,"_

"Interesting pattern," Michael commented after skimming the first few lines.

"The IRA has reinstated their ceasefire and entered into negotiations. Her Majesty is very concerned about this situation. The ceasefire has broken down before. They do not want to see another thirty years of violence. Your contact will brief you on the mission specifics when he gets here."

"And that will be-?"

"I'll bring you some fresh magazines," Raines promised as he got up and exited the room.

Michael sighed and went back to thinking about Darth Vader.

He was pretty sure he'd actually been more like ten when he'd pulled up the floor boards and snuck off to see _Star Wars:_ a movie where the hero's whole family was either already dead or gets killed in the first hour and then the guy goes off and single handedly takes down an evil empire in European military uniforms. Like there was much chance of him missing that, locked door or not. And he'd learned a lot about how houses and ventilation systems were constructed in that adventure. He'd also learned that a backhand you weren't expecting could give you double vision that time, too.

He'd been smarter by the time the sequel came out. He'd learned how to remove the air conditioner instead of pulling up the floor, less time and effort required, easier to cover up your absence. Unfortunately, the McDuffie riots started five days before the premiere and he found himself on guard duty around his mother's house until his father and his cronies had finally shown up two days into it.

Frank Westen's face had been the strangest mingling of anger and amusement when he discovered that Madeline had taken matters into her own hands. She had armed herself and Michael. His mother never did trust Nate with a gun, not even then. Michael chuckled a little bit at the memory, although it reminded him that he had been thirteen when he'd cracked his first safe: his father's gun cabinet. Mrs. Westen's eldest son wondered briefly what kinds of childhood memories normal people had as he absently traced the outline of Vader's helmet with his index finger. .

There was something about those movies that continued to resonate with him for years, besides the dead family and the evil father thing. It was something about the way Larry had always encouraged him, even pushed him, to use his anger, his hatred, to release his _dark side_. He snorted, but the fact that it sounded cheesy didn't make it any less true. Not that he had required a lot of encouragement to do so.

He could take the years of stored-up pain- anger, betrayal, hatred- and focus it with laser-like precision on whatever target the agency had pointed him towards. There was a good reason the Russians had considered Michael Westen to be a team of covert operatives. He was a one-man wreaking crew. Once he had been paired up with Larry, he had become….

The door opened again, effectively ending his reverie.

The man who came in with Raines was short, ruddy-skinned, dark haired (black Irish Michael thought humorlessly) and middle aged. He was unshaven and disheveled. His leather jacket and jeans looked like they had been slept in frequently and recently.

"Meet your MI6 contact," Raines said. "Michael Westen, this is Robin O'Dowd."

Michael stood up and offered his hand. He kept his expression carefully neutral. His partner-to-be looked at him without ever moving to shake his hand and then turned back to Raines.

"Are ya fookin' kidding me?" he said. "Ya brought me a Ruskie. Ya want me to turn a bleeding Ruskie into a fookin' Irishman? Have ya lost yer bloody mind, Raines?"

"Pleased to meet you, too," Michael said evenly.

"Oh, it speaks. Saints preserve us. We're goin' to be lyin' in 2 north with a bowl of grapes and a bottle of lucozade."

Michael cocked an eyebrow at Raines, but made no other comment.

O'Dowd heaved a massive sigh. "Come on, then. Git over here and let's have a proper look at ya," he commanded.

Mr. Westen walked slowly around the table and stood in front of his contact, then crossed his arms over his chest.

"Ah, Mother Mary." He shook his head from side to side. "Can ya at least drink, man? Somethin' other than vodka, that is?. Can ya handle downin' the Black, then?"

Before Michael could answer, O'Dowd rounded on the other man, "What have ya done t'me? Why don' ya just blow me fookin' head off now and be done wit' it? Do one love would ya? I'll go and do it meself."

"I'm sure under your expert guidance..."

"Ya want me to turn thot Ruskie into a proper Irishman in less than a month? Yer barking mad, you are, Raines." He turned back to Michael, "Do ya know which way t' look when ya cross the street? Do ya know which side o' the lorry the tank's on? Do ya know wot a rosary is? Can ya say a Hail Mary? Jesus Christ, I'd like knack yer ballix in. Is there one bloody thing ya know about being a Mick?"

Robin O'Dowd never saw the fist coming that connected with his jawbone. He just found himself on the floor, looking up at Raines, who looked a little dumbfounded, and at Michael, who'd crossed his arms back over his chest.

"Well, then," he said, rubbing his jaw absently and making no move to get up, "now we're gittin' somewhere. Ya can do the hard drinking, two fisted brooding Mick, I think. The ladies love thot."

_When you're a spy, you can't always choose your team. Sometimes you just have to work with what you've got and hope it doesn't get you killed. Or worse._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Still don't own Burn Notice, darn it! Mega thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorite'd and alerted this story. Chapter 1 has been updated if you want to back up and re-read. Minor content changes, but hopefully some improvements. I promise not to do it again =)**

Michael was sitting on the floor, wedged between the sofa and the low, glass-top coffee table in front of him. He had files spread out on the table, on the couch behind him and on the immediate floor to either side of him. His MI6 contact had left armloads of Interpol files, case files, profiles and a case of Black in his new room at the CIA's training and medical facility in London. He'd finally been released from the hospital wing and was one psych eval away from being returned to duty.

He should have been pleased. Instead, he was furious; all over one small, apparently innocuous envelope that had been handed to him along with the keys to his new temporary living quarters. Michael had acclimated to the transient lifestyle of a spy with relative ease. He'd had plenty of practice being "homeless" in his youth and he appreciated the fact that home base, whenever he wasn't in the field, was now usually a safe and quiet environ instead of a place to be avoided at all costs. But the contents of the envelope had set him off as soon as he'd set his bag down inside the front door and read it. Suddenly, the room had seemed too small to contain either him or the anger that coursed through his entire body.

He tried working out, attempting to lose himself in the physical activity. That is until the technician on duty in the Physical Therapy room threatened to report him to the DIA. He tried taking a shower to cool off as well as clean up with little effect on his temper. He tried changing into a navy blue polo and jeans instead of his habitual black T-shirt and sweats, but his mood was still as dark as the clothing he had just cast onto the bed.

He tried completing the "homework" O'Dowd left him, but that had only intensified his bad mood over the course of the afternoon. The empty bottles of Guinness sat in a neat row along the counter top by the frig. Ultimately, he turned to his work to take his mind off things he didn't want to think about, as he had so many times before.

_The IRA reinstated their ceasefire in July 1997, as negotiations were starting without Sinn Féin. UVF was the first paramilitary grouping to split as a result of their ceasefire, spawning the Loyalist Volunteer Force (LVF). In December 1997, the INLA assassinated LVF leader Billy Wright, leading to a series of revenge killings of Catholics by loyalist groups. In addition, a group of Republicans split from the Provisional IRA and formed the Real IRA._

The Real IRA was the group he was being sent to infiltrate. His CIA mandate was simple: ensure the group did not accomplish anything that would upset the negotiations underway between the various governments and paramilitary organizations involved in "The Troubles." The specifics of how he and O'Dowd were to accomplish this would be worked out between them in the field. Agent Westen was temporarily assuaged by the knowledge he still had the same kind of latitude he'd enjoyed prior to his accident. Although he had been cleared in the end, he knew the incident had called his judgment into question.

Well, almost cleared; one more go-round with the head shrinks and... that thing he'd been handed on his way here. Didn't he have enough to deal with between recuperating, re-conditioning, and re-training for his first non-Slavic deep cover mission in years? Michael had stopped just short of mangling the orders and had instead, in an uncharacteristic fit of pique, pitched the paperwork under the table. Glaring murderously at it through a gap between the other papers on the table top, he decided if he ever found out what Идиот was responsible for sending that notice, then what he had done in Russia was going to look sedate by comparison.

His new contact chose that moment to fling the door open and stride into his room, another large stack of files in each arm.

"Make yourself at home," Michael said with only a hint of sarcasm, noting that O'Dowd's garb hadn't changed much from the last two times he'd seen him except for the T-shirt.

"A proper Irishman always does," Robin assured him. "Still thinking like a Ruskie, I see."

He looked around the room at the nest of papers Michael had ensconced himself in and dropped the files he held rather unceremoniously at the end of the couch and then headed for the kitchenette.

"Doing yer homework like a good boy?" he queried in what sounded like approval. Glass scraping across the counter top could be heard as Robin was apparently counting the bottles and realizing there was nothing for him to drink. "I'll give ya this, yer no dosser."

Since he wasn't sure if his contact was talking about the files or the Guinness, he didn't respond.

O'Dowd came back into the living area and pushed a pile of the papers toward the middle of couch and then settled into the place he had just cleared behind Michael's left side.

"So," the proper Irishman began as he pulled a pack of smokes out of his rumpled leather jacket, "wot are ya working on?"

Agent Westen, ever eagle-eyed, immediately spotted the brand in his peripheral vision. It was the one his mother preferred. What the hell...?

"Plotting a homicide," he advised as the other man lit the cigarette and blew a puff into the air.

"Now, yer gettin' in the spirit o' it. Ready to read up on yer targets, then?"

"It's not a homicide our superiors would approve of," Michael advised, as the smell he hated settled around him.

A grin split the unshaven face. "Then there's hope for ya yet, Ruskie," he enthused, exhaling ash and nicotine all over the place. "A proper Irishman never does wot he's told or," O'Dowd continued as he reached over the arm of the couch to snatch a stack of tightly folded papers off the top of the pile, "wot's expected o' him."

"Michael Westen meet Michael McBride."

The former took the pre-offered papers detailing life history the latter.

"Lucky fer ya, the real Michael McBride is in an Italian prison, poor bastard. Luckier fer ya, he left Kilkenney at the tender age o' ten when his ole wan split with his da and she moved back to Milan. Guess it was home fer her in a manner o' speaking."

He'd stolen his first car at ten. He desperately wished his mother had left his father when he was ten. Hell, he wished she'd left his father as soon as he'd been old enough to process who and what his father was.

"And," he continued without noting Michael's inattentiveness, "even luckier fer ya, his ole man and his only brother got themselves blowed up in a church bombing in Belfast two years ago. Deadly fer them, but deadly fer ya as well." He chuckled at his own joke.

The Miami native had a momentary fantasy image of a historical landmark Baptist church erupting into a fireball. It was the last church his mother had successfully dragged them all into for a Christmas Eve service.

The cigarette smoke and the images it was invoking were really starting to irritate as well as distract him. It normally wouldn't have bothered him at all except for those god forsaken orders he had just gotten. This is why he lived in a different hemisphere.

"And then, of course, dear old mum was good enough t'go and pass away last year."

"Let me guess, lung cancer?" Michael queried as he fanned the cloud of toxins away from his face. "Isn't it risky to use-"

"Oh, no, no, no, me lad. IRA's a very exclusive club. Have to prove yer pedigree. Afterall, everyone there knows yer bloody business as well as yer mum's mum's drunken third cousin twice removed. As ya yanks say, you'll need a cover with motive and opportunity. Not t'mention the legion o' white haired, lit'ole grannies who'll claim to remember ye as a lad and want t'give ye love fer all yer troubles. Ya couldn't do better than thot," he jabbed a finger towards the report, "if ya wrote it yerself."

"Speaking of pedigree," Michael said, as his contact got up and went to toss his fag into the kitchen sink, "I'm curious, which dog in this fight is yours?"

"Wot dog fight?" O'Dowd replied, stopping in front of the table and placing his hands on the waistband of his faded jeans. "Wot are ya carryin' on about?"

The American reached over and pulled a report from under the other files stacked on his right side. "I don't mean the ones at Tandragee."

"I don' have a bally wot yer talkin' about here." He was moving from perplexed to angry. "D'ya want an introduction t' the Farmers Boys then?"

"No," Michael responded evenly. He stood up and handed Robin the file. "I want to know who I'm going to be working with around a lot of unstable chemicals and unstable people."

_Loyalty is a tricky thing for a spy. Today's asset can be tomorrow's liability or just the opposite. Knowing what motivates your friends as well as your enemies can be vital in accomplishing your mission- or in simply staying alive. The Mossad has been very successful at this- until last year, that is._

O'Dowd's face turned a darker shade of ruddy as he flipped through the reports. "Yer a right smart-ass little wanker, aren't ya?"

"I do my research," he countered. "The way I see it, not asking why someone with ties to the Republicans, as well as say- motive and opportunity- is helping their sworn enemies is actually asking to get myself blown up again."

His MI6 contact fixed him with a deathly glare. "I ...want... it... to... bloody... well... end!" he grounded out. "I've had a fookin' lifetime o' bombin's, and beatin's and fookin' dead relatives and missin' friends. I'd work with the devil himself t'do it, which by the way I am. I don' want t'swap spit with ya or any other bleeding bastard in this building. Ya make me fookin' skin crawl, the lot of ya. But if thot's wot it takes to put an end to it, then consider yerself kissed, ya sonuvabitch."

O'Dowd's face and posture reverted to its previous pose as a merry, middle-aged booze hound with a rapidity that Michael had to admire, .

"So, Old Scratch, are we workin' together or not?

"The name's McBride," the American spy said with a very passable accent.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The beginning of this chapter was inspired by a yet-to-be-posted fic by the utterly awesome Purdy's Pal, who totally deserves co-author credit for this. Thanks to her and the amazing Amanda for their reviews, suggestions and friendship! Thanks also to everyone who reviewed, fav'd and alerted this story. Sorry to be so long in between updates. **

-0000-

_Late June was as warm and as wet as it typically was in this part of the Caucasus Mountains. It was misty now and cooler as night fell; the damp air making the blackness even deeper. Or perhaps it was because he knew what would happen once they reached that sprawling old rustic farm house visible in the distance nestled the Chechen countryside that made it seem even darker in his memory._

_The ride from Grozny had been long enough to make him eager to be moving again and too short to dull the sense of anticipation he felt. They had parked their vehicle back at the last bend in the road before the turn-off to the main residence. Listening intently for any type of alarm, they moved stealthily forward as one. _

_Then Larry had gone around to the left, making noises in the thick woods that surrounded the compound and diverting one sentry and then the other. Michael had broken one's neck and strangled the second without hesitation. The brutality of what he'd seen over the last three years had made him numb. These men were working for someone who betrayed their own countrymen; they got what they deserved._

_"Okay, kid," his mentor had whispered to him as they stood unopposed on either side of the rear entrance to the main house. "The gardener and his family will be in that shack over there." Mr. Sizemore gestured with his handgun toward an out building a few hundred yards from their position. "Go round them up and bring them back here. We can't have them running off when the shooting starts."_

_As Michael had moved silently towards the small wooden barn, he never bothered to question why they would even hear the shooting. Larry had already silenced his weapon. _

_The occupants had begged and pleaded with him from the moment he'd awoken them at gun point, but he had assured them in his broken Chechen that they would be fine if they just cooperated and kept quiet. Deep down, he knew it was lie when he said it. He was lying to himself as much as to them. _

_Before long, there were sixteen people- men, women and children- assembled in the large kitchen area at the rear of the house, bound and helpless; unable to do anything but watch. He had felt just as trapped and powerless as they were, mesmerized by the scene before him. _

_While interrogating their target and demanding to know who else knew his name, who else knew their business, Agent Sizemore had shot first one and then other man in the room. Then he informed his captive that he would continue to kill people until he got his answers. There were only women and children left. The man would talk now._

_Suddenly, Larry had turned towards him with a speculative look in his eye. "Go keep a lookout. There may be patrols in the area."_

_Michael had nodded dully and proceeded through the long narrow hallway toward the front of the building. He didn't miss the subtle hiss of the silencer that punctuated the quiet between his partner's demands for answers. He couldn't block out the noise as one clip was ejected and the next one slid into place with deadly precision. He couldn't even acknowledge the soft sound as one by one, bodies slumped onto the floor._

_Just when he thought he couldn't take it another minute, Mr. Sizemore had called him back into the room._

_Larry was holding the man they had come to kill flush against his chest. The man was facing away from the agent who had plunged a knife into his heart and was now twisting the blade. The Chechen's face was a mask of horror, whether from the physical pain or the sight of everyone else in the room, his wife, his children, his mother and his staff and their families, all mercilessly murdered, it was hard to say. Larry's expression was one of determination before it became something else, something sickeningly akin to pleasure._

_Upon hearing the gurgling sound that indicated Josef Broshev had breathed his last breath, his mentor had released the body. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. Michael had stared unmoving at Larry's right hand, covered in the man's blood._

_"What, Kid? They call it 'wet work' for a reason."_

Michael sucked in a gasp of air and bolted out of the bed. Fortunately, the rooms were small and the distance between the bed and lavatory was short.

He lost track of how long he sat on the floor huddled around the toilet, retching and trembling, his body lathered in a cold sweat. Something was wrong besides the nightmare he'd just had.

For one, it wasn't a nightmare. His mind had vividly recreated the end of mission that had broken the bond between him and Larry Sizemore, the man who'd been his mentor as well as his partner. He should be grateful he had woken up before being treated to a replay of his complicity in covering up the massacre or what had followed afterwards. It had been over three years since that had taken place, but it still haunted him; especially after what had happened earlier this year in St. Petersburg.

For another, he'd been feeling dizzy and nauseous on and off all day. He'd had trouble focusing during his briefing with O'Dowd. Just like the other day, he'd kept having images and thoughts run through his mind that distracted him.

At first, he'd written it off to his anger over the orders that he'd been given. But now, he was getting worried that something more serious was going on. His injuries had been extensive, particularly the head trauma. They hadn't been joking in the ICU when he'd overheard the nurses referring to him as Frankenstein. He'd had more stitches and staples in his head than Boris Karloff had ever imagined.

Between that and the circumstances of his last mission with Larry, he had been more than concerned that he would not be allowed to return to duty.

If he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was when it came to his feelings, he had been terrified.

Michael pushed himself up off the floor and staggered to the shower. He painfully peeled his sweat soaked clothes off his sticky body and climbed stiffly into the tub. Leaning his forehead against the cool tile, fumbling with the controls, he alternated between cold and hot blasts of water until eventually he cleaned up and calmed down.

-0000-

"I appreciate yer goin' at this like the Kilkenny cat that yer pretending t'be, but ye might want to lay off ... or at least invite yer old friend t'go with ye."

Agent Westen had turned his attention from pretending to read the file in front of him back up to the perpetually unshaven face of his MI6 contact, who was so much harder to understand when there was two of him. The spy squeezed his eyes shut and commanded the images to come back together.

"Got a bad dose," he mumbled.

"Bollocks," O'Dowd replied. "Yer hammered. Or more t'the point, ye were."

"Shut yer gob," Michael requested quietly, planting his elbows firmly on the table between them and rubbing his eyes.

The disheveled man cut loose with an uproarious laugh and got up from his chair, ambling into the kitchenette behind the slumped figure; slapping him firmly on the back as he passed by. It did nothing to help the splitting headache.

"Ye'd think ye'd been downing Poitin instead o' Black," Robin commented. Mr. Westen didn't really hear the rustling of leather nor the flick of the lighter. It wasn't until the noxious fumes started adding to his misery that he realized the other man was smoking as he rummaged through the cabinets, obviously looking for something.

Then came the clink of a large glass hitting the counter. All the bottles had been removed the other day while O'Dowd had taken great pleasure in advising Michael that he had failed his first test. Any Irishman knew that Guinness only properly came out of a tap and he should have made some complaint about having to down the whole lot out of a _bottle_. Raines or whoever had coordinated the stock in his refrigerator and cupboards had apparently corrected that failure. The next time Guinness appeared in his living quarters, they had provided the aforementioned beverage in a special can which gave the drink its much prized fluffy white head when poured.

His companion proceeded to demonstrate this from the moment he returned to the table with said can in one hand, a large pint glass in the other and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"Wot you need," he declared, opening the can and pouring out its contents with a flourish as well as issuing cloud of airborne ash with his words, "is some hair o' the dog."

It was all the American could do to keep his stomach from rebelling as the dark liquid was set in front of him and the aroma hit his nose. He tried inhaling in short breaths through his mouth, but that only made the burn from the smoke worse.

"Go on, then," he was urged.

Michael looked from the foamy glass to the expectant dark eyes before him.

Slowly, the Irishman reached across the table and pulled the national drink back towards himself.

"Hmm, you _do_ look a bit dodgy today," he admitted as he proceeded to down the pint. "Now, then, are ye done acquaintin' yerself with the Glenanne gang?"

The younger man looked down at the file in front him again.

_The Glenanne gang - Name derived from the farm in Glenanne near Markethill, County Armagh used as primary arms dump and bomb-making site. Loose alliance of Northern Irish loyalists carrying out sectarian killings and bomb attacks against the Irish Catholic and Irish nationalist community throughout the 1970s. Suspected of including British Army soldiers, UDR, RUC, UVF and UDA members. _

As the covert operative tried to focus on the information, one of the multiple murders attributed to these paramilitary extremists jumped out at him, even in his impaired state.

…_..4 January 1976 - __County Armagh. UVF shot dead five Irish Catholic civilians – two from the Reavey family and three from the O'Dowd family in two coordinated attacks. Police complicity was confirmed. _

…_5 January 1976 – Kingsmill, County Armagh – 11 Protestant men shot dead by South Armagh Republican Action Force in retaliation for the prior night's attack. Only survivor shot 18 times. _

Michael puzzled once again over why O'Dowd, who obviously had ample reason to hate the loyalist groups, had essentially chosen to ally himself with his enemies in order to infiltrate a Republican group. They hadn't discussed it any further since their confrontation the other day, but his intuition told him there was more to the man's motives than he was letting on.

As he nodded his assent that he was done studying the intelligence materials, another wave of dizziness hit him squarely between the eyes and then dropped straight into his rolling stomach.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

_The yogurt. _

_It had to be the yogurt. _

He'd been so pleased to find it in the fridge the other day- even if it was Muller instead of Dannon- that he'd practically quaffed it down. He'd thought it would have been the perfect thing to settle his unsettled condition this morning.

But it had tasted off. He'd been halfway through it before he had realized something was not quite right and pitched it into the trash.

Michael looked up to see the other man standing before the table, new files in his hands and a quizzical look on his face.

"Yer a might pale, even for a Ruskie," O'Dowd acknowledged, as he sat down and placed the large folders, they were too thick to be called files really, on the table between them.

"Bad yogurt," he responded in his normal voice as the moment passed and his senses began to clear.

His contact's brow crinkled, the question plainly on his face. "Wot? Thot stuff yer grannie feeds t'her little monkeys? Ye eat thot?"

Revulsion was equally plain on his face when he realized Michael was serious. Eyeing him carefully, Robin continued, "Wot? Did ye used t'be a lard arse?"

"No big secret, just love yogurt."

"Well, there'll be none o' thot in the fridge in Dublin," the Irishman assured him firmly. He made an exaggerated show of shivering and reached for his smokes.

"Can ye not do thot?" Mr. McBride requested.

"Yer having me on then, aren't ye?" He pulled the pack from his jacket pocket and set it on the top of the files along with his lighter. "Wot are ye going t'do in the pub? The smoke's thicker'n fog."

The older man pushed to the two objects towards his contact. "Ye ought t'learn to light up, McBride. A fag is-"

Michael pushed them back away "- not for me."

Madeline's voice, requesting him to pick up a carton of those detested things, echoed through his brain in a dozen different ways across a multitude of years.

He'd bought them for her, he'd stolen them for her, but he never stopped hating the fact that she was addicted to them, never stopped despising the way they made his clothing smell. It was something about the stench of her brand of cigarette as opposed to the cigars his father smoked that he could never get out of his head. Not even here in another hemisphere six time zones away, he thought bitterly as O'Dowd tucked the offending items back into his coat.

"Right. Now thot ye've met the Glenanne gang from the north side o' the line meet the Glenannes from the other side. Nary a more hardcore Republican lot than this bunch, steeped in the Cause fer generations back they was."

He opened the top file and was greeted with a stern visage staring out at him from a grainy old police photograph, while a smaller surveillance snap clipped to the bottom of the page showed a tiny, almost bird-like woman.

"Patrick Glenanne Senior was one o' the IRA's most talented bomb makers throughout the Troubles. With the help o' his lovely bride Maeve o'course, he went on t'father his own personal terrorist cell," he sounded like he was quoting from something else, "five boys, two girls in all. An' dinnae let her looks fool ye either, boyo. She's quite the firecracker herself."

Michael opened the next file in the stack as Robin continued to narrate. "Patrick Junior there took over the family when Da was finally taken in 1979. The old man never made it out o' Long Kesh. I don' know whot the lad was thinking when he took 'em off the farm and settled them on the Falls Road in Belfast. He was killed a few years on when a paratrooper unit came a' calling."

Michael closed the file on the fiery looking, but now deceased, head of the family. As he opened the next file, the eyes of the man in the photo seemed to stare straight into the covert operative's soul.

"Thot is Liam Glenanne, head o'the family now and one o' the most feared IRA interrogators. If ye ever see thot man other than over a bowl of stew at the family dinner, yer cover's blown and yer about t'die a most unpleasant death. He moved their mammy and the four youngist to Dublin, whilst the older three kept up the family business as t'were in Belfast. "

Mr. Westen closed the folder quickly and opened the next two.

"On yer left is Seamus, whose personal talent is gun running, and on the right is Colin, who personal assignment was running intel between Dublin and Belfast. And now we meet our targets; the two most radical and dangerous of the entire gang."

It wasn't lost on the spy that the information on the family had been arranged in birth order, which meant the last two were also the youngest.

As he turned back the covers of the last two files, his breath caught in his throat.

"Yeah, she has thot effect on people," O'Dowd observed dryly.

On his left hand side, the young man in the photograph was identified as Sean Glenanne, stereotypical Irishman and street brawler just by the look of him. On his right was the photo of a young woman who was barely in her twenties at the time it was taken. She looked like a stereotypical Catholic school girl, except for the glint of mischief in her eye that was still visible even under what had to have been disagreeable circumstances when the photo was taken.

"Are you-" his question was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

Robin heaved a massive sigh and then hauled himself off the chair. The knocking sounded twice more before the intelligence asset reached the door.

On the other side was a pair of tall, wide shouldered men wearing black suits with US Embassy identification badges pinned to their chests and dark scowls plastered on their faces. O'Dowd backed away from the doorway a pace.

"Which one of you is Michael Donavan Westen?"

The Irishman pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb and then proceeded to squeeze between the two massive blocks of conditioned muscle, exiting quickly through the door.

The one who had asked the question stepped toward Michael while touching his ear piece.

"You're to come with us, Mr. Westen."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: As always, thanks much to Amazing Amanda and equally awesome Purdy's Pal for their help and support and to Purdy for also being my architect. Love to all the ladies in the PCC and a special thanks to everyone who fav'd, alerted, reviewed and read what is fast becoming the biography of Michael Westen.**

-ooooooo-

"Top side in thirty," the hulking mountain of muscle in a black suit had advised.

That told Michael three things. One, he would be going into the embassy building, so he needed to get cleaned up and into a suit. Two, he had less than thirty minutes to complete his preparations or these two would drag him out of the room in whatever state of preparedness he was in when time was up. Three-

He was either being cleared to return to duty or

He was in trouble; _a lot_ of trouble.

The American Embassy London Chancery Building had been constructed throughout the 1950s and finally opened the same year JFK won the office and gave America the closest thing it would have to presidential royalty for decades to come. At the time of its construction, the buildings non-Gregorian facade had caused quite of stir with its surrounding neighbors. Officially, the building had nine stories, three of which were below ground.

Unofficially, the structure was actually twelve stories, the lowest three belonging exclusively to the CIA. Built during the height of Cold War paranoia, the entire compound was so vast in fact that it still occupied the six stories of underground space located under the Canadian High Commission, who had purchased the former Embassy at 1 Grosvenor Square when the US had abandoned it in favor of their current location on the western side of the square.

Between the two locations, there were extensive medical and training suites, temporary residences and associated facilities and various interrogation rooms and holding areas. The offices for the European Bureau Chief were in the embassy itself. Guard duty on the entrances that separated the Canadians from the intelligence community below their feet was considered a punishment detail for anyone needing a reminder of their place in the Company.

He stole a quick glance at the badges and then at the ear pieces on his two escorts; definitely not your everyday embassy employees.

"So, how's the pension plan with the embassy these days?" Not that he expected them to tell him what was really going on.

"Top side. Twenty nine."

Still, it didn't hurt to try.

The Army was fond of waking its recruits up at all sorts of odd hours and demanding their readiness on short notice. His training in the Westen household from a very young age had made him far more prepared than his contemporaries in the Ranger program to be able to assess a situation on short notice and react accordingly.

First order of business, secure your location.

"Somebody needs to return those files to the library," Michael declared over his shoulder on the way out of the main room.

"Twenty eight."

"It's on you."

Or cover your ass, as the case may be.

Something was either very wrong or very right here and he needed to be at his best either way, which he was far from this morning. Only the adrenaline of the situation was clearing his head at the moment. He wasn't sure how long it would last. The brass, he thought, have an uncanny knack for calling you out on your worst day.

_"Right, Westen," the voice of Captain Novack, his CO from Afghanistan drifted through his brain. "That's why you only got 93% at six hundred meters." _

Michael shook his head to clear it and took another quick look around his temporary bedroom. If he was being escorted through the embassy, whether for a mission briefing or a 9 mm retirement party, he wouldn't be allowed to take anything with him either way.

Mr. Westen opted to shower quickly and suit up, another skill he learned in the military, not knowing when he would get another chance to clean up.

After concealing as many non-metallic weapons on his person that he could, he slipped into his matching dark gray suit jacket, sans tie of course, and walked into the front area of his current living quarters. He noted that the files, and everything else in the room, were untouched.

"After you," the spy told them.

-ooooooo-

"Could I have another drink of water?"

It was a classic ploy; an innocuous request to test their defenses.

When he had been deposited in this sparse but expensively decorated office lobby on the seventh floor of the embassy, he had breathed a temporary sigh of relief. After about fifteen minutes, the receptionist had come out from behind the large dark walnut barrier that had effectively hidden her from view and offered him a drink.

He'd watched her partially vanish into a side room and heard her crack open a bottle with some carbonation in it. Effervescent mineral water was not on the list of his top ten favorite things to drink, but he had matched her dazzling smile with one of his own as she'd handed him the clear glass full of fizz. It had tasted just as horrendous as he'd imagined it would. While she'd stood in front of him watching him try to choke down the beverage while pretending to enjoy it, they had chatted about the virtues of mineral water and the benefits of the Highland Springs mineral water that he was drinking in particular and verbally dueled to determine their relative experience in tradecraft.

He was definitely in an Agency office.

The petite brunette in the tasteful deep brown pant suit had taken the glass from him and then vanished behind her security console masquerading as a reception counter.

She reminded him of a high powered criminal attorney who's "after hours" company he'd sought out for the primary purpose of having his criminal records cleaned once he'd decided to join the Army. His history of lawlessness would have prevented his entry into the Rangers program and it certainly would have hampered his entry into the Agency, though he'd had no idea at the time for what ultimate career path he was clearing the way.

He smirked at the memory. The secondary benefits of that situation had been very good indeed.

After he'd cooled his heels for another twenty minutes or so, his head had started to spin again, his shoulder and neck muscles began to stiffen and ache and his stomach got unruly.

_Crap! Was he getting the flu? Or was this something more serious?_

As much as he would have preferred one of the bottles of Aqua Pure that was back in his kitchenette, he calculated that the carbonation in the mineral water would probably do better to settle his gastrointestinal woes. As he approached from the side, he noted that the high wooden furniture wrapped around such that it would almost be impossible for him to sneak a peek at what was back there when she left the room without being obvious.

She answered his wide grin with one of her own as she stood up and reached to her right. Placing his glass on the counter top, she poured the remainder of the green glass bottle into it and inquired about his health. He made light of whatever she'd said and then drained the vile liquid, hoping it would be worth it in the end. Her expression became smug at that point, over what he wasn't sure. He went back to his overstuffed leather seat on the opposite side of the room and kept watch on the elevator doors.

That opened twenty minutes later revealing a different large, heavily muscled man in a black suit with a buzz cut. His embassy badge and his earpiece were identical to his previous 'guides'.

"Michael Donavan Westen?"

_What was this obsession with his middle name today?_

He nodded instead of answering, which was a mistake because it set off another wave of dizziness. Clamping down on it, he walked silently into the elevator with his usher, taking the far corner and turning toward the front. The man inserted a key into the control panel and turned it to the right. The slight jerk under his feet told him they were moving and the position of the key hole told him they were headed to the lowest level of the embassy building.

_"Donavan? What the hell kinda name is Donavan?"_

_"It's for my grandma, Andre. Donna van Gelder. Dona-van."_

_He remembered his paternal grandmother fondly. She was one of the few wholly good things he could remember from his childhood. He'd decided once that she must have adopted his father._

_"Shit, you ain't no Donavan. You's M.D. Westen. As in Doctor Westen, cuz you's always trying to play doctor wit' the girls."_

_Mike had laughed instead of answering. Andre had him there, but he wasn't about to tell him he'd already shed his virginity. They just were a couple of fourteen year olds on the prowl. _

_"No, no, no. I got it. You Mad Dog Westen," Andre had laughed uproariously at his own joke. "Cuz you one crazy sonuvabitch!"_

_Michael couldn't argue with that either._

The ping of the elevator shook him out of his reverie. The doors opened onto a long, dimly lit corridor.

He took a deep breath and stepped out.

-ooooooo-

Rayna Kopec was wearing a trench in the concrete when Michael spotted her at the end of a long, narrow corridor that was inset with steel doors at irregular intervals. He blew out another short sigh of relief. That made it more likely that he was on his way to getting cleared for duty, unless he was unlucky enough that they would be "retiring" both of them today. Although, anything was possible and, he recalled, she was only known to pace at that speed when she was particularly agitated. She was usually very still and collected. The last time he'd seen her that disturbed was-

Chechnya.

"Westen," she acknowledged, heading quickly towards him and not waiting for him to come to her. That was not good.

She was dressed in a navy blue power suit with medium height black heels, her sandy blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, a style leftover from her Navy days. She usually dressed more practically in the field and wore a long braid. While the upgraded wardrobe could be a good or bad sign, it was certainly an indicator that something official was going on.

She stopped in front of him and gazed intensely into his cobalt blue eyes, hers almost the same color. Rayna apparently didn't like what she saw because her somber visage began to twist into a scowl. His superior crossed her arms over her chest tightly and continued to stare at him.

"We have to stop meeting like this," she said tightly as Ms. Kopec began tapping her index finger on her upper arm, the sound muffled by the thick fabric of her suit coat.

Months earlier, Rayna had debriefed him while he was still in the medical unit and later again when he had gone up before the review board regarding his final mission with Larry Sizemore.

"That would be my preference," Michael agreed, wishing he didn't feel so light-headed.

He returned her unabashed stare now. Rayna didn't have any tells except for the pacing, so why was she demonstrating such an obvious nervous tick that she'd never had the entire time he'd known her? What was she trying to let him know? He glanced upwards briefly. Of course they were being monitored. That went without saying.

The station chief huffed and rolled her eyes at him, just like she'd done during the briefing for their very first mission together in... that was it! That's what she was signaling in Morse code: the name of the town where they'd first worked together.

Now if he could just figure out why that mission was so important...

A door two down from where they stood swung out slowly.

"There's not going to be any commendations today, but there should be," she advised him, just barely above a whisper. "You did the right thing _this time_."

And with that, Ms. Kopec turned on her heels and marched towards the open door. She gave him one last long look before redirecting her attention to the occupants of the room.

"Gentlemen," the blonde said in a tone that clearly indicated she thought they were anything but as she disappeared into the entrance.

Rayna had deliberately said it loud enough for him to hear, but hopefully not enough that she'd alerted whoever was in there that he now knew they were being recorded _and _watched.

Michael didn't find himself alone in the corridor for long.

The steel door inset into the wall nearest to him moved aside, revealing a plain white space. White washed concrete floor, white sound insulated walls, plain metal furniture bolted to the floor on the left side and on the right side, adjacent the empty table and chair,

A panel of assembled bureaucrats; all senior members of the Agency from the look of them.

Even in his impaired condition, he knew what he was supposed to do.

Agent Westen settled back in the chair, grateful to be sitting down at that particular moment, and unbuttoned his suit coat.

He tried not to think about how nauseous he was or about who was sitting with his boss behind that large piece of one-way glass centered on the wall behind the trio of officious looking pencil pushers. He tried to focus on what she'd "said" and what it could possibly mean.

_"Did you see the look on the bitch's face when she had to stand there and recommend us for that commendation, Kid?" Larry chuckled with utter delight._

Michael couldn't decide if the three of them all looked substantially alike by design or if his vision was starting to fail him as well.

The White Coat in the center of the table was flanked on either side by equally self-important, nearly retired old men with white hair, pasty complexions and identical black suits. These three clearly did not spend much time in the field, but then again what upper management types did?

"Do you know why you're here today?" the gaunt man in the lab coat asked, not unkindly. Michael thought he remembered him vaguely from his time in ICU.

_"Smile Kid," his mentor instructed. "It confuses the hell out of them."_

"Do you find something amusing about your situation, Mr. Westen?" queried the decidedly larger one on the right, obviously in more of an ill humor.

A thousand sardonic retorts crashed together in his brain simultaneously.

"And that would be?" Michael returned at length.

The oldest man on the left side of the tribunal narrowed his dark eyes and gave the spy a penetrating glare before he spoke.

"This review board has been convened to determine your complicity in the death of Agent Larry Sizemore."


End file.
